


something more than nothing

by onakissgodknows



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Attempted Murder, Case Fic, Kidnapping, M/M, Minor Injuries, Sharing a Bed, Smoking, and then so much more happened, ish, this started out as 'and there was only one bed' fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-12
Updated: 2020-06-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:34:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24674686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onakissgodknows/pseuds/onakissgodknows
Summary: Jon and Tim travel south to fact-check a statement. They find more than they bargained for, in more ways than one.
Relationships: Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist/Tim Stoker
Comments: 17
Kudos: 158





	something more than nothing

**Author's Note:**

> This is set mid-season 2. Please mind the tags and feel free to let me know if I need to tag anything else!

They’re in the middle of fact-checking a statement by a Mrs. Susanna Langford, regarding the disappearance of her daughter Carrie after Carrie’s move to a small seaside town near Brighton. Well – disappearance is a bit of a loose term, Jon thinks, because Mrs. Langford has still been receiving letters from Carrie. It’s just that, well, Carrie never calls or visits or even answers the phone when her mother tries to call, and Mrs. Langford’s declining health prevents her from going to visit Carrie, and Mrs. Langford apparently got nowhere with the police. Six months after Carrie’s disappearance, Mrs. Langford gave a statement to the Magnus Institute, shortly before Gertrude’s death, and Jon has only just uncovered the statement.

Sasha is on leave at the moment, on holiday with her new boyfriend (which seems fast, Jon thinks, but what does he know?) and Martin’s been under the weather lately (Jon tries not to think about the last time Martin was ill), which leaves Tim to go down to this little town near Brighton and corroborate the details of Mrs. Langford’s story.

Tim complained in passing that normally for something like this, that takes them out of London possibly overnight, Tim would have been able to take Sasha or Martin with him. Elias catches wind of this and says “Fine, take Jon then,” and then Elias disappears into his office for the foreseeable future, leaving both Tim and Jon in a state of dismay.

But Elias is the boss, which is why now Jon is on a commuter train speeding out of London, with Tim next to him. Tim, who will barely even look at him these days.

“Right,” Tim says, finally breaking the silence. “It really shouldn’t take much time at all, I would think. I’ve already mapped out where she lived and where she worked, so we can talk to the employer and hopefully the landlord will let us into her flat. It might give us something, I suppose, though to be honest, I don’t know that we’re looking at anything supernatural.”

“There is the matter of the letters,” Jon says slowly. “Why keep writing her mother if Carrie disappeared on purpose?”

Tim shrugs. “Maybe she just got into trouble. Needed to get off the grid but didn’t want to cut off Mum entirely.”

“You spoke to Mrs. Langford?”

“Yes. I talked to her a few days ago and she’s still receiving letters.”

Jon hums softly. The letter that had been attached to Mrs. Langford’s statement was perfunctory and lacked much detail about the young woman’s life – _hi how are you miss you love you_ – and then a quick signoff. It’s unusual, to be sure – but nothing, yet, that makes him feel _certain_ it’s supernatural. “Interesting. Well, Tim, with any luck we’ll check all the boxes and be on the first train back to London tomorrow. I’m sorry you’re stuck with me until then. I’m surprised Elias even told me to come.”

Tim laughs softly and gives him a kind of crooked grin. “He probably wanted to get you out of the Institute for awhile. He’s probably sick of you hanging around at all hours.”

Jon huffs. “I _work_ there, Tim.”

“So do I, but you won’t catch me still sniffing around well past sundown.”

“There are worse things than caring about one’s work.”

Tim laughs. “Oh, is that what we’re calling it?”

The train trundles to its final stop, and Jon and Tim have to disembark and then hop on a bus for the rest of the journey. The biggest mystery in all of this is why a twenty-three-year-old woman would leave bustling London for a town too remote even for her mother to visit, but Jon supposes that’s none of his business.

The plan is, then, to check into the hotel where they’re spending the night and then track down Carrie’s flat and former employer. The woman checking them in keeps eyeing them strangely, and Jon wonders why until he realizes it’s their scars she’s staring at. Christ, he and Tim _match_. Tim notices it too, and rolls his eyes before saying to the woman, “They’re birth marks. We’re brothers. Twins, actually,” and Jon wants to bash his head into the check-in desk, because there’s no one Jon looks less like than Tim.

The lady is eyeing them even more strangely now and Tim smirks and says “Different dads, though, that’s the thing.”

Jon finally smacks him on the arm. “Stop it.” He looks apologetically at the lady and says, “He’s lying. We’re not related.”

The woman hands them a pair of room keys. “Room 204.”

“Should’ve let me go with it,” Tim complains as they step out of the elevator onto the second floor. “If she’s going to stare at people’s scars, she deserves to be screwed with.” He fits the key into the lock and shoves the door open.

They enter the room and Jon stops short when he sees that there’s only one bed in the center of the room. Tim groans and throws his bag onto the mattress. “You’ve got to be kidding. I asked for two.”

“I’ll sleep on the couch,” Jon says immediately.

“We can figure it out later,” Tim says. “We’ve got places to be.” Tim is in some kind of bad mood, which has been his usual state since Prentiss’s attack, and even worse since Martin told him about Jon’s extracurricular activities. (That said, Tim has seemed perfectly happy around Sasha and Martin, so it’s possible this is all to do with Jon, which is _likely_ , but Jon would prefer to think otherwise.)

Carrie Langford had worked at a local daycare facility. According to her employer, she had sent in her resignation by mail the day before her disappearance.

Jon had forgotten how boring it can get chasing after corroboration for stories that probably won’t amount to anything, but Tim seems to enjoy it well enough, if by “enjoying it” you mean “flirting with the daycare workers.”

Jon comes out of the office where he’s been talking to the owner of the daycare to find Tim chatting and laughing with one of the young women who’s doing her best to corral a bunch of three-year-olds.

“No, really?” Tim says incredulously to her as Jon approaches. “You’ve never been – come up to London sometime, we’ll go!”

The woman laughs a little shyly and Jon feels some sort of discomfort twist in his stomach. It’s so easy for Tim, isn’t it? He’s gorgeous and he knows it and he’s the sort of person who…when you talk to him, it sort of feels like you’re the only person in the world. Until Tim decides he doesn’t like you, that is, and then when he talks to you it’s like he’s trying to figure out how to end the conversation as quickly as possible, just to ease his own torment. He has a way of making you feel very small when he wants to.

Jon seizes him by the arm and drags him away from the latest object of his affections.

“Hey – Jon, what the hell!” 

“Sorry, Tim, we’ve got to go. Sorry,” Jon adds to the bemused girl as he pulls Tim to the door.

“Do you think it’s appropriate to be flirting on the job?” Jon demands as they leave the daycare center.

“How do you think I get half the police records I get you?” Tim snaps back. “Hell – more than half, and you’re one to talk, you’ve got your thing with Basira – “

Jon scoffs. “That’s not at all what you think.”

“Fine, fine, deny it all you want, but if my _flirting_ bothers you so much then you should have brought it up sooner instead of looking the other way when it benefits you.”

“It only bothers me when it gets in the _way_ of the job,” Jon says, and his face feels warm all of a sudden. “I don’t – sorry, Tim, maybe we should – “

“We should go, yeah,” Tim says firmly, and brushes past Jon on his way down the street.

“Tim, listen,” Jon says as he jogs to catch up. “I know you don’t want to be here with me, and I’m not thrilled with the arrangement myself, so – maybe we can just be civil to each other? Then we can return to London and go back to ignoring each other.” He’s unable to keep the note of bitterness out of his voice.

“I’m being civil,” Tim says, though Jon can practically see him reigning in his annoyance. His voice gets a little gentler. “I am…being civil. It’s just a little weird, you know? Having my boss tagging along. Even if you were a normal boss and not a creepy fucker, no offense. Imagine if Elias started breathing down your neck while you’re doing your recordings.”

Jon doesn’t like anyone breathing down his neck. This is hardly Elias-specific. Still, he understands where Tim is coming from, though he’s not sure what he’s supposed to do about it. Let Tim do his thing and follow along, being as unobtrusive as possible?

Jon decides that’s best. He follows Tim through the winding streets to the flat where Carrie lived prior to her disappearance, then they enter the leasing office.

“Hello,” Tim says cheerfully to the girl behind the desk, whose nameplate reads ASHLEY. She looks up and smiles the way people tend to when they see Tim.

“Hi,” she says. “Can I help you?”

“Hope so,” Tim says. “Have you worked here awhile?”

“A bit over a year.” Ashley sets aside the notebook she’s been pouring over and beams up at both of them. “Are you new to the area?”

“You could say that,” Tim says with a laugh. He holds out his hand for the girl to shake. “I’m Tim. This is Jon.”

“Are you two looking for a flat?” Ashley asks cheerfully. “My girlfriend and I live on the top floor. It’s a great place to live, really quiet and peaceful. We do require proof of employment, but for couples, as long as at least one of you can provide - ”

“Oh,” Tim interrupts quickly. “We’re not here for that, we aren’t – “

“We aren’t a couple,” Jon says firmly. “And we aren’t relocating.”

“Well.” Tim glances at Jon. “I might, if I can get out of London any time soon.”

Jon rolls his eyes – _yes, Tim, we all know you want out_ – but says nothing.

Ashley looks embarrassed. “So sorry. My mistake.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Tim says. “We’re actually here to get some information about a young lady who used to live here.”

She frowns. “Are you the police?”

“No,” Jon says. “We work for a private institute – “

Ashley’s face brightens. “Oh, like private investigators!”

Not at all, but Jon and Tim exchange another look, and wordlessly decide to roll with it. “Sure,” Tim says. “Do you remember a girl called Carrie Langford?”

“I think so,” says Ashley. “She was only here for a few months when I first started. She broke her lease and moved everything out close to a year ago.”

“So she was here,” Jon presses. “Did she clear out her flat herself?”

Ashley shakes her head. “No. She had a moving company come. Just a couple of big guys did everything. Probably easier for her. She was a little thing if I remember right.”

At this point, anything involving _moving_ or _delivering_ catches Jon’s attention, so – “Do you remember what moving company?”

She shakes her head again. “Look, I didn’t really talk to them at all, I just saw them moving Carrie’s things out.” Ashley pushes her chair back from the desk and goes to a file cabinet. “Is she missing, or what’s this all about?”

“We don’t really know,” Tim says.

“I suppose you can’t show us the flat?” Jon says, resigned.

“I would, except there’s someone else living there now, so I can’t.” She takes a file out of the cabinet and pages through it. “I have a copy of her lease, if it matters.” She holds up the paper.

It probably doesn’t matter, but Tim takes the file anyway.

They leave the leasing office. “Waste of time,” Jon grumbles. “Even if it was Breekon and Hope who moved her things out, there’s no way to verify _that_.” He sighs. “I don’t know if there’s anyone else we can talk to for any further verification – “

“Listen, while you were wasting your time with the owner of the daycare, the girl I was talking to told me that Carrie was very friendly but very quiet, didn’t have a lot of friends in town yet, but she frequented an independent bookstore a few blocks away. Said she was close with the owner.” Tim gives him a meaningful look. “If you _really_ want to cover everything….”

It’s worth a shot, though Jon feels a sense of trepidation as they approach the bookshop. It’s an old building at the end of a fairly empty street, and it looks like it’s just an old house that has had the ground floor converted into the shop.

“Wonder if the owner just lives upstairs?” Tim says curiously, peering up. The upstairs windows are dark, though, and it’s impossible to tell anything from looking at them.

WRIGHT BOOKS is emblazoned in fading gold paint across the weather-worn door. Jon can’t help thinking of how bookshops make him think of Leitner, and of Mike Crew, and of Gerard Keay, but before he can voice any of this or put together in his head if any of those names even make sense in connection to this statement, Tim pushes open the door and steps inside. Jon lets out a huff and follows.

The shelves are rickety and so close together Jon’s sure he’d be hard pressed to walk through them without bumping into them or knocking something over. The books are stacked haphazard, organized vaguely by genre, but within the genres there doesn’t seem to be much rhyme or reason.

“Quaint,” Tim says, and weaves his way through the stacks. “Hello?”

At the other end of the shop is the checkout desk, and a heavyset older man with a face as gray as his hair steps out of the bookshelves to stand in front of it. “May I help you?”

“Maybe,” Tim says. “Is this your shop?”

“Yes,” says the man, guarded. “I’m Edward Wright.”

“Great. I won’t take much of your time. Just following up about a young lady who used to frequent your shop.”

While Tim chats with the owner, Jon wanders through the shelves, looking for….he’s not sure what. He hasn’t seen one of Leitner’s books in person since…well, it’s been a long time. As he picks his way through the books, he half-listens to Tim’s conversation with the owner.

“No, no,” Wright says. “I knew her, sure, but not well. Don’t think she’d lived in town long.”

“Sure,” Tim answers. “And you haven’t seen or heard from her since last year?”

“No. Though I don’t get out much. It’s just me and my daughter at home, you know.”

“Your daughter?” Tim sounds a little more interested. “Did she know Carrie as well? Could I speak to her?”

Wright’s voice gets softer, almost a mumble; Jon has to strain his ears to hear, paused with his hand halfway to a leather-bound volume some six inches above his head. “No. No, I don’t think she knew her. She’s sick, my daughter, I take care of her.”

Tim clicks his tongue sympathetically. “Very sorry to hear that. D’you – by chance, do you live just upstairs, above your shop?”

Jon pulls down the book he’s been eyeing but it’s nothing, just a fancy edition of some old Nordic poetry. Unsure if he’s disappointed or relieved, he replaces it.

“Not sure it’s any of your business where I live, young man,” Wright says gruffly.

“Of course,” Tim says, backing down, but Jon can hear in his voice something a little – steely and resolute. Jon glances over his shoulder and notices Tim’s stiff posture, his crooked little grin instead of the broad smile he usually wears when he’s talking to anyone not named Jon Sims, and Jon realizes with a bit of a thrill that Tim does not like this man. “Won’t take any more of your time, sir. Jon?”

“Over here,” Jon says.

“Let’s go.”

Another fruitless expedition, Jon thinks as they leave, though Tim still seems troubled. “What?” Jon asks as they walk down the street.

“I don’t know, I just feel like that guy was hiding something,” Tim says darkly.

“I didn’t hear the whole conversation,” Jon says. “What did he say?”

Tim snorts. “Not much, really. Did he know Carrie – no, he doesn’t think so, but then, oh wait, yes he does, but hasn’t seen her in months. And he got weird when I asked about his daughter…” Tim bites his lip and glances back at the bookshop. “I don’t know. It might be nothing.”

A few months ago, Jon would have been all too eager to tell Tim he was being ridiculous, that there’s a perfectly rational explanation for Edward Wright behaving a little strangely. Nowadays, though, Jon sees bad things everywhere – to a fault, he knows, he knows he’s paranoid – so it can’t hurt to dig a little deeper… “I’ll text Martin. I know he’s not feeling well, but maybe he can do a little research if he’s up to it.”

Tim nods, a little distracted, and Jon texts Martin the name of the man and his bookshop.

This town is so small that the last bus for the train station leaves at five, and it’s half past now, but they planned for this, it’s why they’ve got the room at the inn, the room with only one bed that Jon is trying not to think about. The sky is getting dark, not only from the sunset but from the clouds rolling in, signifying impending rainfall.

“So,” Tim says, “what now?”

He speaks with the air of one trying to make the best of a bad situation, and Jon needs a cigarette. Hurriedly he rummages in his pockets and unearths half a pack along with his spiderweb lighter. Absentmindedly he offers a cigarette to Tim, who shakes his head with a slight wrinkle of his nose, so Jon shrugs and lights his. His phone buzzes, and it’s a response from Martin that only says, _Thanks, Jon! Will check!_

“I guess that’s all we can get done today,” Jon says with a sigh, pocketing his phone.

“Great. Let’s get a drink.”

Jon pauses, bewildered. “You really want to get a drink with me?”

Tim sighs. “Company’s a little limited here, so sure, Jon, why not?”

Before they can find a decent bar, though, the rain comes, a torrential downpour bringing with it cold winds and the sting of raindrops on skin, so instead they make the decision to order dinner instead once they’re back at the hotel. Tim ducks into a liquor store on the way back for beer. They’re soaked to the skin when they return to the hotel room, and Tim makes a beeline for the bathroom before Jon can even say a word.

Jon supposes the charitable thing to do is to let Tim have the shower first, even though it doesn’t seem he has much choice in the matter.

Tim emerges fifteen minutes later without a shirt on, toweling his hair dry, and Jon pointedly does _not_ look. “All yours, boss,” Tim says. He sits down on the edge of the bed and reaches for the takeaway menu on the nightstand. “I’ll order us some food.”

Jon doesn’t really know what to say, so he says, “Save the receipt. For expenses,” and Tim laughs like he’s said something hilarious, so Jon is pleased enough. He goes to shower off the rainwater, leaving Tim in the bedroom.

The water pressure is pretty terrible and the temperature fluctuates between scalding and icy, so Jon’s shower is shorter than he’d like and leaves him with reddened skin from the extreme temperatures and a grumpy mood. When he emerges, he’s even more irritated to see that Tim still hasn’t thought to put on a shirt, and Tim’s sprawled across the mattress, cell phone held aloft as he texts away.

“You had to use up the hot water?” Jon grumbles, sitting down on the uncomfortable sofa he assumes he’ll be sleeping on tonight.

“Sorry, boss,” Tim says, and he doesn’t sound sorry, but he also doesn’t sound like he did it maliciously. He gestures to the nightstand, where a large paper bag awaits. “Food’s here, though! I waited for you!” Tim tosses his phone aside and opens the bag, then passes Jon a greasy Styrofoam container. “Sweet and sour pork, yeah? That’s what you like?”

Surprised, Jon takes the container and the plastic utensils Tim offers him. “You remembered.”

“Of course,” Tim says easily. He tugs on a t-shirt before opening his own box – fried rice, Jon remembers now, that’s what Tim always ordered when they’d ended up working late when they were both back in research. Tim grins at him, and Jon knows he’s thinking the same thing. “Too many late nights in the damn stacks, you think I don’t remember you ordering the same thing every time? Gave you enough shit for it.”

“Right,” Jon says, gesturing to Tim’s fried rice. “Because you’re Mr. Variety.”

“They say it’s the spice of life, but given how things have been going, I welcome the little consistencies,” Tim says drily. He stands, picks up a couple of beers, and comes over to the couch. “Scoot.”

Jon moves over to make room for Tim, and he sits, cracks open both beers, and hands one to Jon. Jon lifts the bottle in thanks, and drinks.

Rain still lashes against the window, but the room is warm and well-lit, so one might almost call it cozy. However, he’s still in a tiny town a couple hours from London, in a room with Tim Stoker, who does not like him and who may be plotting to kill him, and only one bed.

Tim picks up the remote and turns on the TV, finds some rerun of a game show that reminds Jon of the sort of thing he used to find his grandmother watching when he’d get home from school. Tim sets the remote down, satisfied, and Jon just…watches him watching it. His face looks younger, somehow, his handsome profile relaxed for the first time in who knows how long, though he doesn’t lose the tightness at the corners of his mouth. Something in Tim has always seemed tense around Jon these past few months.

“That’s creepy, you know,” Tim remarks after this has gone on a few moments.

Jon looks away, feeling his face get hot. “Sorry.”

“It’s all right,” Tim says, sounding resigned. “I just don’t think you even realize you’re doing it. Christ, it’s like you don’t even blink sometimes.”

“I’m sorry, Tim.” The lack of blinking probably can be chalked up to sleep deprivation, but the staring is another story.

“Don’t worry about it. Eat your dinner.”

Jon does, and tries to watch the TV instead of Tim, but game shows have never held his attention. He should have brought a book or something, but lately he has not been able to focus on a book either, only statements, and the creeping feeling that he’s being watched.

It does seem to lessen the further he gets from the Institute, but Jon doesn’t trust his own feelings these days, and he suspects that any comfort he feels is only a false sense of security.

When they’ve both finished eating, Tim takes both the empty containers and throws them out, and comes back to the couch with two more beers. Jon holds a hand up, refusing, but Tim says, “Live a little,” so Jon accepts.

“Thanks,” he says, feeling sheepish.

Tim sits back down next to him with a sigh. “I’d say it’s like old times, but you never were much for after-work happy hours.”

“No,” Jon admits, toying with his bottle. “I never felt like….” He never felt he quite fit in with his peers, a conceit traceable back to childhood, no doubt.

“We always would have had you, Jon,” Tim says. “If you’d ever wanted.” He sighs again. “Not that we go out for drinks anymore, unless you count endless cups of tea that Martin pushes on you just because he wants to get rid of them.”

Jon laughs softly, more because he thinks he’s supposed to rather than because he actually thinks it’s funny. “You don’t ever go out with the others? Sasha and Martin, I mean.”

“We used to once in awhile, but God, it feels like a lifetime ago. Especially after – well – “ He gestures to the scars on his face. “Sasha sort of pulled away after all that, and Martin got more nervous, and I…I don’t know. Just go home after work and think about my regrets.” 

Jon looks down at his hands, wondering if he can actually ask Tim what he’s been wondering for quite some time. “Tim, why – “ he blurts out before he can stop himself. “Why did you start working for the Institute? Your work history is not what I would expect.”

“Caught me, huh, boss?” Tim grins, and for a split-second Jon is actually afraid, sure Tim is about to reveal some sort of master plan – but then Tim says, “Yeah, I’m a closet nerd, but keep it to yourself, would you? Publishing isn’t all that glamorous an industry when you pull back the curtain. Maybe I just needed to do something different with my life.”

That’s not it, though, that can’t be the only reason Tim started working for the Institute, and Jon shakes his head. “You must’ve had a reason you picked _this job_.”

“Yeah, I mean….” For a moment, it seems like Tim is about to actually tell him, then he sighs again. “Story for another time, okay, boss? I don’t really want to talk about it.”

“Oh!” Jon feels himself turning red again. “Of course. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to overstep.”

Tim shakes his head. “If you’d asked me back when we were in research I would’ve told you in a heartbeat.”

“Really?” Jon is more than a little surprised.

“Sure.”

“Why didn’t you?”

Tim smiles and gives him a sidelong look. “Because you never asked. Funny how that works, right?” When Jon doesn’t respond, Tim exhales slowly and chugs half his beer. “I just can’t do it now. Not like this, okay? I feel like we should at least _try_ to have a good time.”

Jon nods. “I suppose if I were to ask why you came with me to the archives when I asked, you’d say the same?”

“No, that’s an easier question,” Tim says with a little more cheer. “That’s because I liked you. Well, that’s not the only reason, but – yeah. I thought you’d be okay to work for, wouldn’t be one of those bosses breathing down my neck all the time. I thought you’d run things well.”

“Ah.” Jon drinks more of his beer. “I’m sorry I’ve been such a disappointment, then.”

Tim considers. “I guess it hasn’t been all bad. The lows have been really damn low, though.”

“You can’t think I don’t feel the same way,” Jon protests. If he had known that taking the archivist position would have resulted in worms burrowing into his skin he’s sure he wouldn’t have accepted it. Well, he’s pretty sure he wouldn’t have, but something about the archives have compelled him since he joined the Institute, so who really knows? “I didn’t know, you know, going in, that it would be like this.”

“I know that. I do, it’s just hard, you know, to let go of it, and then…”

“I know I’ve done some unforgivable things.” Jon says haltingly, and Tim pats him absentmindedly on the knee, which makes Jon stiffen a little in surprise.

“You have,” Tim says, hand still on Jon’s knee, “and I _don’t_ forgive you, but maybe we can forget about it, since we have to be here together... Just for tonight.”

Jon feels like his brain is short-circuiting. Tim, he knows, is a very physically affectionate person; Jon has seen him in the break room with his arm draped over Martin’s shoulders while they talk, he’s seen him hug Sasha on Monday mornings like he hasn’t seen her in weeks, he’s even seen him catch _Elias_ , of all people, by the arm when he needs to ask him a question – but he can’t remember the last time Tim touched _him_. Jon can’t pretend he’s never noticed that Tim is an attractive man; barely a couple of hours ago Tim was casually walking around without a shirt on and even though he’s not anymore, the white t-shirt he’s wearing now isn’t that much better. It’s not like Jon can’t see his _arms_ and his tan skin and his strong hand resting on Jon’s knee, fingers curling gently -

“You okay?” Tim asks him, and moves his hand. Jon exhales gustily and Tim, realizing, hastily adds, “Oh – Jesus, sorry, I didn’t even think – “

“It’s okay,” Jon says firmly. “It’s _fine_.” If merely being touched can reduce him to a state like this, maybe he really _should_ try dating again, which is what Georgie gently suggested last time they spoke, but that was quite a long time ago, before Jon joined the Institute, and he’s thrown himself so completely into the work, who has the _time_?

“Jon,” Tim says gently, a small smile on his face. “You sure you’re okay?”

“Yes.”

Tim’s gazing at him with this same knowing little grin. “You know I meant it when I said I liked you, right?”

“Past tense being the key here, but yes, I know you meant it,” Jon says, his voice stiff.

“Sometimes you’re not so bad these days,” Tim says teasingly. “And, you know, the aloof academic persona isn’t unappealing.”

Jon chokes on his beer. “What – “

“Some might find it mysterious and sexy,” Tim goes on, still teasing, and Jon blushes furiously and hates himself for it, and Tim laughs. “Not saying I do, personally, but, you know, there’s _something_ there.”

Jon’s heart, he notices, is beating hard against his ribcage. As much as he never felt like he fit in with most of his colleagues, never really _cared_ to, that had never necessarily applied to Tim. Tim had always made space for him. Tim is the one who pushed his way into Jon’s life when they were both in research, asked him his opinion when he needed help, would drag Jon away from the books to go for a walk and a cup of coffee – and who could blame Jon for feeling _something_? Tim is the sort of person who can take all the air out of the room just by walking in and Jon has been dealing with these nuisance _feelings_ practically since they met. He shouldn’t have asked Tim to come with him to the archives. He can pretend all he wants that he picked Tim because of his work, because of the way he conducts himself, and it wouldn’t be false, but it wouldn’t be the whole truth. The sort of truth which, by the time Jon realized what it was, was completely inappropriate to reveal.

_I’m his boss. I’m his boss. I’m his boss._

“Tim,” Jon says, “this is an HR nightmare.”

For all Jon’s internal hemming and hawing, Tim has the audacity to smile easily and say simply, “I won’t tell if you won’t. Do we even have HR?”

Jon thinks Elias probably considers himself the HR department. Tim, still smiling, slides his hand into Jon’s. He cups Jon’s face with his other hand, rubbing his thumb over Jon’s bottom lip.

“You have been kissed before, right?” he says in that same playful tone.

“Of course I’ve been kissed before!” Jon snaps, and Tim laughs before leaning in to kiss him.

It’s a little awkward because Tim misses the center of Jon’s mouth and Jon tenses up on instinct, and Tim smiles against Jon’s lips. “Is this okay?” Tim asks, stroking Jon’s face.

“Yes,” Jon says firmly, because it _is_ , he _wants_ this, and he wills himself to relax. It almost seems to work, because when Tim laughs and presses his lips to Jon’s again, Jon actually kisses back. He’s still blushing, can feel how red his face is, but it feels _nice_ , kissing Tim. He’d thought it would, on the rare occasions he allowed himself to think about it. Mostly he tries to pretend he _hasn’t_ thought about it.

Tim slips his hand around to cup the back of Jon’s head, and he’s so gentle, and Jon can feel his smile as his lips trace Jon’s. Stuck with sudden boldness, Jon pulls himself closer to Tim and curls his fingers into the front of his shirt, pulling him down, asking for more. Tim makes a little noise deep in his throat, pleased, and parts his lips against Jon’s, his tongue pressing in, Jon opening his mouth eagerly in response.

Tim shifts his arms, getting one around Jon’s waist, putting another hand under his leg, pulling him forward so Jon is half in his lap, their bodies pressed together, and their kisses grow hungrier. Hands frantically move over bodies like neither can get enough. Tim pulls away from Jon’s mouth long enough to trail kisses down Jon’s jaw and neck. Tim’s face is rough with stubble from having gone without shaving just a little too long and Jon rakes his hand through Tim’s hair with a whispered “ _Tim_ ” that’s somewhere between a prayer and a curse.

“Okay, boss?” Tim asks against Jon’s skin, and that, too, makes Jon’s breath catch in his chest.

“Yes,” he whispers, and he tugs gently at Tim’s hair to make him come back up and kiss his lips again. Tim seems more than happy to oblige. One of his hands is at Jon’s waist, holding him close, the other roaming up and down his chest, occasionally touching his face or neck.

It’s the kind of casual intimacy that Jon has almost no experience with, but that he supposes Tim has had in abundance – and that thought makes Jon's stomach twist unhappily. They’ll go back to London tomorrow, and then Tim will forget about tonight and he’ll hate Jon again. That, more than anything, feels like more than Jon will be able to bear. All at once, he stops kissing Tim and drops his head to Tim’s chest, taking a deep breath.

Tim gently strokes his back. “Hey. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Jon has his forehead pressed to Tim’s collarbone, watching his chest rise and fall. He can still hear the rain pattering against the window.

“We can stop. Nothing you don’t want to do,” Tim says.

“Of course. I know that.” Jon twists his fingers into the fabric of Tim’s shirt again, just to hold onto him. Tim strokes Jon’s hair, playing with his curls. Jon feels him sigh.

“It makes you think, doesn’t it?” Tim says. He touches Jon under the chin to get him to lift his head, and when he does Tim carefully touches the scars on his face, which makes Jon look at the matching ones on Tim’s.

“About what?” asks Jon, wondering if they’re thinking the same thing.

Tim traces Jon’s face with both hands, touching his scars, his cheekbones, nose, lips. He looks at him so closely Jon almost feels like he’s looking _through_ him. He shakes his head. “Just…what things could have been like.”

If Jon hadn’t taken the archivist position and dragged Tim along with him. Maybe they could have stayed in research together and had something resembling happiness. Jon’s chest feels hollow. “Tim, I’m sorry.”

Jon’s voice breaks in the middle of his sentence and Tim cups his face in his hands. “Hey, hey, no! No, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you sad!” He leans in and presses another quick kiss to Jon’s lips. “No, look, you’re fun to make out with, okay? We could have been doing this all this time. A lot of missed opportunities, you know?” He grins, and Jon knows that wasn’t all he was thinking, but he noticed Jon getting upset so he’s not going to say any more.

Jon scoots away from Tim – not much, but since he’d been practically on top of him it feels like they are miles apart. Tim’s knee brushes against Jon’s, and Jon smiles at him as best he can, taking off his glasses and wiping his eyes. Tim smiles back, a real smile, and grabs Jon’s hand, squeezing. “You’re okay, Jon, right? You’re okay.”

“Yes,” Jon says, replacing his glasses. “I’m okay.”

Tim’s lips are still a little shiny, a little kissed-pink, his hair a bit of a mess, and Jon sort of can’t believe he did that, that’s because of _him_. He leans in and kisses him again, too rough, their teeth clack together and Jon’s glasses bump into Tim’s face, but Tim laughs into it and kisses him back. Jon smiles at him while Tim strokes his cheek with his thumb.

“It’s late,” Jon says.

“So it is,” Tim says, glancing at the clock. “Time for bed, maybe.”

“Right.” Jon stands and gathers the empty beer bottles to throw away. He opens the linen closet to get an extra pillow and blanket. Sleeping on the couch is probably going to be murder on his back, but what can he do?

“Jon,” Tim says behind him, exasperated. “You really don’t have to sleep on the couch. Just share the bed with me, it’s fine.”

Jon shakes his head with a sigh. “I can’t, Tim. I – really, I can’t.”

Tim huffs at him. “Okay, okay. God, you’re stubborn.”

“Sometimes it’s a virtue.”

“Sure it is, boss.”

Jon doesn’t wake up screaming, exactly, but he makes enough noise in his sleep that Tim wakes up first, in the middle of the night. He can hear Jon over on the couch he’d so ridiculously insisted he use as a bed, whimpering and whining like he’s being attacked. Tim quickly gets to his feet and goes to Jon’s side, kneeling next to the couch. “Jon?”

Jon is twitching fitfully in his sleep like an animal having a bad dream. Tim puts out a hand and touches Jon on the arm and immediately Jon jerks away, waking up with a yell. Tim lifts his hands. “Hey, it’s just me.” He reaches over to switch on the lamp next to the bed so Jon isn’t struggling to see him in the dark.

Jon is breathing hard, still coming down from the nightmare. “There were worms on me.” 

Tim sighs, trying not to let Jon hear it. “Yeah. I get those dreams too.” It hadn’t felt quite so bad in the moment, but sometimes at night his mind takes him back and he’s once again lying on the floor of the archive, feeling what seemed like thousands and thousands of worms burrow into his skin….

“I couldn’t move. And _it_ just stood there and watched, like it was all just a - a show – “ Jon tightens his fists around the blankets, knuckles whitening so much Tim puts his hands over them, trying to get him to relax.

“It’s okay,” Tim says gently. “You’re safe here. It’s only me.” Jon grabs Tim’s hands and holds on tight, like it’s an anchor to reality. Tim is struck by how small Jon seems. He’s sure Jon has lost weight lately, but it’s certainly not Tim’s place to ask about it. With his glasses off, the dark circles under his eyes are even more apparent. Tim can’t help being concerned – Jon really hasn’t been taking care of himself lately, has he? The part of him that used to like Jon so much _aches_ , but Tim knows Jon doesn’t want his help. Still, maybe he can at least do something for him _tonight_. 

Tim’s fingers are going numb against Jon’s grip, but he still manages to squeeze Jon’s hand gently. “Come on.” He stands.

“What?” Jon looks up at him, bewildered. His curly hair is a mess, sticking up all over his head like a lion’s mane, and Tim almost laughs.

“You’re not sleeping on the damn couch, Jon. You don’t have to be alone every second.”

“Tim,” Jon says pleadingly. “It’s not appropriate – “

“There’s a lot of that going around tonight,” Tim says firmly, “so if your only concern is how this is going to look to _fucking Elias_ , who is never even going to _know_ – “

“Fine,” Jon says, exasperated, and pulls himself to his feet, barely awake and unsteady. Tim slips an arm around his waist as they move the few feet from the couch to the bed, and Jon collapses onto it with a groan. He closes his eyes and rubs his face. Tim walks around the other side of the bed and crawls back under the blankets, which he pulls over Jon as well. Jon has almost dozed off within moments, and Tim can feel him inching closer to him. Tim is tempted to put his arms around him and hold him close.

Why not, really? Tim rolls over and pulls Jon into his side. Jon curls up against him, head resting on Tim’s shoulder. He sighs softly, all but asleep. Tim closes his eyes. There are worse things to fall asleep to. There was even a time, awhile back, when Tim might have been positively pleased to have Jon clinging to him in his sleep. Back when they were in research together, back when they were friends, Tim had liked Jon. _Really_ liked him. It hurts to know how much has changed. Everything went to shit after Jon took that damn archivist position – had he _had_ to do it? Does Jon wonder as much as Tim does where they would have been if he hadn’t done it?

Tim had thought about asking him out, a few times. Mostly fleeting thoughts that crossed his mind in quiet moments – Jon pouring over books or papers, wire-frame glasses slipping down his nose and hair standing on end from how much he’s raked his hands through it; Jon, a little flushed after one too many drinks at the rare happy hour he actually attended; Jon surprising Tim by laughing uproariously at one of Tim’s jokes – and Tim had really thought once or twice that maybe he could fall in love with him. He’d quickly pushed those thoughts away, deeming them inappropriate for work. Work crushes are fun but not…not _serious_. Anyway, Tim has other things to occupy his time with. Once they both moved to the archives everything changed. Jon was busier. More distant. Less himself.

It all feels like a lifetime ago. Still, Tim can’t help wondering as he drifts off if it’s really Jon who’s changed so much, or if it’s him.

Tim wakes up so early the next morning the sun is barely up, and Jon is still asleep, curled up in a half-moon shape like a cat, with his hair falling in his face, and Tim feels something resembling fondness. Jon looks almost relaxed when he’s asleep, a notable change from the rigidity and tension he holds in his face while awake. Because of this, perhaps, Tim decides to leave Jon to his slumber and turns on his laptop to check his email. Predictably, there’s not much waiting for him, but there is an email addressed to Jon from Martin.

_FROM: mblackwood_

_TO: jsims_

_CC: tstoker_

_SUBJECT: Wright Books_

_Jon,_

_Edward Wright opened the bookshop almost 30 years ago, not long after he moved away from Manchester. He was married at the time, but his wife passed 15 years ago. He used to be pretty involved with community activities, involved with town council etc but that looks like it stopped after his daughter Emily sadly died at 22. As far as I can find, though, nothing unusual about his bookshop or anything in his past._

_I’m no Sasha, so I know it’s not much, but I hope this helped. See you when you get back._

_Martin_

Tim closes the browser window and shuts off his laptop. There’s something still niggling at him, something about that store owner he can’t get out of his head. He checks his watch; they’re not due at the bus stop for a few hours yet. Surely it couldn’t hurt to just _check_.

Tim stands and begins packing up his things, and Jon finally stirs. He opens his eyes, blinking in the light of the morning streaming in from the windows, and then looks over at Tim. He furrows his brow. “What are you doing?”

Tim shakes his head. “Nothing. I was just going to get a coffee. You want one?”

Jon lays his head back down, rubbing his eyes. “Yes. Black, please.”

“You got it, boss. I’ll meet you downstairs in a bit.” Tim pulls on his jacket and heads out.

He’s going to get the coffee, he just has to make a quick stop at that bookstore first. As he walks, he shoots a text to Martin, asking if he’s sure Edward Wright’s daughter is dead. Martin responds by sending him the link to the girl’s obituary – Emily Wright, dead at twenty-two from a rare form of bone cancer. It was nearly ten years ago now.

Tim’s _sure_ that Edward Wright told him he lives with his daughter. He skims the article, looking for mention of a sister, but there’s nothing.

He has to go back to that bookstore. He has a nagging feeling that something is very wrong here. He thinks about calling the police, but based on what evidence? A hunch from somebody who works at the Magnus Institute isn’t going to hold much weight. He has to figure this out himself, just enough that maybe he can have something concrete to hand to the police, or to Carrie Langford’s mother. He can’t tell Jon what he’s doing because Jon would tell him not to.

Mrs. Langford came to them for help. What are they even doing if they can’t actually do that?

The bookstore isn’t open yet when Tim gets there, and he fruitlessly tries to peer through the windows. It’s too dark to see anything, so Tim steps back and looks up at the upper floor. Everything’s dark up there too.

Tim knocks on the door. “Mr. Wright?” He tries the handle but it’s still locked. Frustrated, Tim turns to go – then he turns back, unable to pull himself away. Maybe there’s a back door? There’s a low fence around the back garden, but it’s not even waist-high for Tim, so he steps over it easily. This is clearly trespassing at this point, but, well, what are they going to do, arrest him? (Possible, so he’d better have something to show for it if the cops show up.)

There is a back door, and when he tries it, it opens. Before him is a set of stairs, and next to them another door – a closet, probably, or maybe the way to a cellar. Either way, the door is clearly locked; besides the normal keyhole above the handle, the door has been equipped with additional bolts, all locking from the outside. Tim glances around to see if there’s a key rack nearby, but there’s nothing. Tim thinks about going up the stairs, but something tells him to try the door. He knows it’ll be useless, but even as Tim rattles the handle of the door he can hear movement behind it, then a soft voice.

“Who’s there?” the voice calls hoarsely. It sounds feminine, but Tim can’t be sure – then again, he _is_ , he’s known deep down what was really going on since he first spoke to Edward Wright. The email from Martin this morning only clarified things; Tim doesn’t know if it’s pure instinct or if the pieces are just being laid out before him.

Tim yanks on the handle, fully intending to break it if he needs to. If he had more time, maybe he could pick the locks – Danny taught him to do it when they were teenagers, and it’s like riding a bike in that you never quite forget how – but Tim has the creeping suspicion he won’t be alone for long.

“Hello?” says the frightened voice behind the door.

Tim pulls uselessly at the handle again. “I’m here!”

The girl on the other side of the door says something else, so soft Tim can barely make out her words – “ _you have to go_.”

He could leave now. Get back to the hotel, find Jon, tell him what he found. He could go to the police and let them know there’s a locked door in this man’s home with a girl inside. There is no _reasonable explanation_ –

The doorstep behind Tim creaks, and he whirls around, heart pounding in sudden terror. Edward Wright is in the doorway. Suddenly he looks larger than he did yesterday – Tim wants to run, to find a way around him, but he fills the doorway, and Tim’s trapped.

“What do you think you’re doing, young man?” Wright asks quietly.

Tim decides to try pleasant confusion. “So sorry – I saw the store was closed, but I just – really wanted to ask you about a book – “ His voice shakes. Wright isn’t going to buy it.

Wright advances toward him. “Where’s the other one?”

“I’m sorry?” Tim’s voice cracks a little at the end of the question.

“There was a fellow with you yesterday,” Wright says flatly.

“Oh!” Tim laughs. “He’s not here. Cross my heart. Doesn’t really like books, that one – “

Wright is almost on top of him. Tim makes a split second decision, and dives for the stairs. He’s going up, so there’s a real possibility he’ll be trapped in Wright’s flat when he gets up there, but if he’s quick enough, maybe he can double back –

Tim doesn’t get the chance. He’s almost at the top of the stairs when Wright catches him by the ankle and drags him back. Tim loses his balance, and Wright throws him back down the steps the way he came.

Tim lands heavy in the entryway and slams his head against the doorframe. Everything goes black.

Tim wakes up with aching wrists and a splitting headache. As he comes to, he realizes he’s in a basement, with brick walls, though there’s an area rug spread across the cement floor. Perhaps this is what was behind the locked door in Wright’s home. There’s a bed pushed up against the far wall; not a bare cot like Tim would have expected to see, but a comfortable mattress spread with a clean quilt. The basement isn’t particularly well-lit, but a bright lamp does its best to mitigate the darkness.

It looks like someone is trying to make the best of a bad situation.

As for Tim’s situation, he’s tied to a post near the wall, hands bound behind his back. When he turns his head, pain erupts in his skull and he groans. He can feel dried blood down the side of his face. He must look a fright.

“Are you awake?” a small voice asks, and Tim jumps – he had not even noticed the girl crouched in the corner at the foot of the bed. She’s wearing baggy jeans and an oversized t-shirt, and has the unhealthy look of someone who has lost significant weight in a short period of time. Her face is pale and thin, with dark circles under her eyes, but Tim recognizes her from the photos. It’s Carrie Langford.

Tim sits up straighter, as best he can. “Hi! Carrie, right?”

The girl nods. She stands up and Tim can see that she’s handcuffed by one wrist to the wooden bedpost. She can move around, but there’s no way she can reach him unless she drags the entire bed along with her, and she looks much too weak for that. She notices Tim’s eyes on the handcuff, and she shrugs. “This is only because you’re here.” She gives him the tiniest smile. “He doesn’t usually bother with the cuffs lately. All the locks on the door are plenty to keep me from getting out.” She sits on the edge of the mattress. “Who are you?”

Tim tries to smile. “I was looking for you, actually. I’m with….” Mentally, he runs through the pros and cons of actually mentioning the Magnus Institute, and decides not to. “I spoke to your mother.”

Carrie’s breath catches, and she covers her mouth with her free hand. “Is she okay?”

“Yeah!” Tim says earnestly. “She’s good! Real sweet lady. Worried sick about you.”

Carrie lowers her head and covers her eyes. “He made me write her letters so she wouldn’t suspect anything, but I knew she would. I was so afraid… My mum’s been ill so long, I thought I wouldn’t get to see her before…”

“We’re going to get you out of here,” Tim says firmly. He feels a little lightheaded. “What happened to you? Why is he keeping you here?”

Carrie shakes her head. “I thought he was just this lonely old man… I didn’t realize how lonely….” She looks at Tim and gives him a tearful smile. “He calls me Emily. It was his daughter’s name. Sometimes I think he doesn’t realize I’m not her.”

There it is – the piece that makes it all make sense. Wright couldn’t handle the grief after his daughter died, so he found a replacement. Carrie must be about the age Emily was when she succumbed to her sickness.

“I suppose it could be worse,” Carrie says reluctantly. “I get to watch TV. He gives me any book I want to read, as long as it’s a paperback. Once, right after he first locked me in here, I had a heavy hardback book and I hit him with it. Let me tell you, he really let me know what he thought of that.” She laughs, a frightened little high-pitched noise.

“Does he hurt you?” Tim asks gently, and Carrie shakes her head again.

“Not often. I know what you probably think…but he thinks I’m his daughter. He’s only hurt me if I’ve tried to get away.” She bites her lower lip, which already looks dry and cracked. “I should never have been so stupid, letting myself get – get taken like this – “

“Hey,” Tim says. “It’s not your fault. You seem like a nice person. I don’t think being good to people is a mistake.” Tim pulls at his wrists, feeling the rope chafe. “I mean, talk about mistakes – this whole week, for me…” Carrie’s face falls a little, and Tim hastily adds, “No, I don’t mean finding you, obviously we are both going to get out of here. My mistake was that I made out with my boss. Work’s going to get awkward.” This makes Carrie laugh, and Tim is pleased, though now he’s thinking about kissing Jon again. What the hell had even come over him last night? What’s it say that he kind of wants to do it again?

There are more pressing issues at hand than thinking about Jon Sims and his surprisingly skillful lips. Tim’s fingers are going numb. He shifts a little, and he can tell anything he’d had in his pockets is gone. “I don’t suppose you can get over here.”

Carrie tries. She makes a valiant effort; Tim can see her arms shaking as she tries to drag the bedframe with her across the room, but she can’t, and Tim stops her before she can fall over from exhaustion.

“Don’t,” Tim says, and Carrie lets herself sink back onto the mattress. “It’s okay. Look, I’m not in town by myself, and I’m sure my colleague is wondering where I am.” If Jon hasn’t assumed Tim has just gone home. He gives Carrie as earnest a look as he can muster. “We’re getting out of here, Carrie.”

Carrie whimpers unhappily. “I don’t know. He might…. he might just kill you, and then I’ll still be here for the rest of my life, however long that is.”

The idea of dying here is not appealing, but Tim tries to ignore the prickling fear. “I don’t know about you, but I don’t have any intentions of dying today.”

Carrie doesn’t answer. Tim closes his eyes and leans his head against the post he’s tied to. He wills himself not to fall asleep or lose consciousness.

 _Come on, Jon. Come find me_.

Jon is waiting in the lobby of the hotel, lying on one of the uncomfortable sofas set up there, and Tim isn’t answering his phone. After the third time it goes to voicemail, Jon can’t help but leave a terse message – “ _If you wanted to leave without me, that’s fine, but you could have let me know. Call or text me so I know if I can get on the bus”_ – before hanging up and angrily tossing his phone aside.

Tim could have at least taken his things, if he’s left. Jon doesn’t relish lugging two overnight bags back to London, let alone somehow getting Tim’s back to him. He supposes he can just drop it off at the Institute, but Jon doesn’t really want to make that detour on his way home either.

Now that Jon thinks about it, though, it _is_ strange that Tim didn’t take any of his belongings. Jon also doesn’t understand why Tim would cut and run after they’ve actually been getting along, but he supposes it’s still true that Tim hates him. Jon shouldn’t have expected that to change. He doesn’t remember much of his nightmare last night or what happened after he woke up, what he and Tim said to each other, only that he moved from the couch to the bed and when he woke this morning Tim was already up, seeming…. _agitated_. He hadn’t said much, just left to get coffee, and never came back.

It is admittedly weird. But it’s only been an hour or so.

Once Tim has been gone for two hours, Jon calls Martin. Martin is mostly annoyed that Jon didn’t read his email, which Jon does not have time to deal with – (“ _I’m sorry, Martin, I haven’t had a chance!_ ”) – but Martin does tell Jon that he texted Tim a link to confirm some of the facts he sent them.

So there’s that.

When Tim has been gone for just over three hours, Jon calls Basira, and Basira surprises him by picking up.

“Quickly, Jon, please, I haven’t got a lot of time.”

“How long does someone have to be gone for them to be considered a missing person?”

A long pause, then Basira says, “How long are we talking about?”

“Three hours.”

“That’s not a missing person.”

“Maybe not, but what if I told you I’m looking for another person who actually is missing?” Jon has a feeling that if Tim hasn’t simply left him behind (still plausible), then he probably thinks he’s going to find Carrie Langford. This isn’t why they’re here. This isn’t what they _do_. If this is what Tim is up to, Jon’s really going to chew him out when he finds him.

Another long pause. “Is this section 31 stuff?”

Jon rubs his eyes. “I doubt it.”

“But if you’re involved, it gets automatically thrown our way regardless.” Basira sighs at him. “Are you in danger, Jon?”

It’s difficult to say. “Not imminently.”

“Jon…”

“Tim and I are in this little town fact-checking a statement,” Jon says in a rush, and overrides Basira’s furious interruption. “There’s a young woman whose mother believes she’s missing, and I think Tim might think he knows where to find her. I haven’t seen him for hours.”

“You’re not even in London?” Basira groans. “I’m sorry, Jon, I don’t know what you want me to do.”

Jon doesn’t really know either. Maybe he just wanted to hear a friendly voice. “Do you know what _I_ should do?”

“You’re going to have to figure it out. I can’t do anything from here, not when you don’t even have anything for me to go on.” Basira hesitates. “Be careful, though? And keep me posted.”

Jon closes his eyes. “Sure.”

Basira says goodbye and they hang up. Jon is back where he started.

Tim is probably fine. He probably just decided to go home. But is it really like Tim to just take off like this, without a goodbye or stopping to pick up his things?

Okay, fine, so Jon is worried.

He picks up his phone and pockets it. He’s going to find Tim. If Tim’s fine, then Jon supposes he’ll look like a fool. If Tim’s not fine, well….Jon will cross that bridge when he comes to it. All this paranoia has to be good for something.

Tim has managed to get to his feet. The way he’s tied, he can move in a circle around the post he’s bound to. Maybe if he generates enough friction, the ropes will wear away? That sounds like that could take time, time Tim doesn’t have. Carrie watches him from her seat on the bed, her eyes unnervingly large in her thin face.

“Is there any other way out besides that way?” Tim asks her, pointing with his foot to the stairs that lead up to the locked door.

Carrie shakes her head. “There are vents, I guess. I don’t think you can get through them, though.”

Okay. So the only choice seems to be to get free, somehow, and have some sort of weapon ready for whenever Wright comes back. Christ, this is not Tim’s strong suit; he’s used to talking his way out of trouble and he doesn’t think charm will help him much here. He scans the room, looking for anything that can be used as a weapon. Once again, there isn’t much. Just Tim and this half-starved girl who must weigh 120 soaking wet.

Perhaps he can break the post he’s tied to. It’s metal, not wood, and seems welded pretty firmly to the ground, but he pushes his back against it anyway, just to see if there’s any give. There isn’t, really, maybe if he had better leverage or a better angle he could make something happen, but all he has is what seems like a good way to hurt himself. He presses his back against the post again anyway, feels the cold metal against his spine.

“Listen,” Carrie says in a small voice. “I understand why you’re doing this, but do you think I haven’t tried to get out?”

“No,” Tim says, attempting to brace his feet against the wall he’s nearest to, “but can you blame me doing the same thing? Especially since, as you said, he’s probably going to kill me.”

Carrie shakes her head, looking terribly sad.

“You never know,” Tim says, trying to be cheerful. “Maybe he won’t kill me after all. Maybe he doesn’t have it in him.”

“He does, though,” she says in that same tiny voice, and Tim has to turn to look at her.

“What do you mean?”

Carrie shakes her head again. “I don’t think I’m the first person he’s kept down here. I don’t know what happened to the girl before me, but… He can’t very well have just let her go, can he?” She tries to smile. “So I figure my days are probably numbered. I don’t know. He talks a lot about how his daughter was twenty-two. Maybe he won’t like it when I start getting older.”

Tim can feel his heart shattering. This girl does not deserve to live the rest of her short life in this dingy basement. “Carrie,” he says sincerely, and she looks at him. “We’re going to get out of here.”

Carrie looks away. She doesn’t believe him, and he can’t blame her for that, so the best he can do is try to believe it himself.

But God, his head hurts. Every bit of exertion just makes pain throb through his skull and Tim has to rest before long.

“Are you okay?” Carrie asks as Tim slides to the floor, eyes shut.

“I will be,” Tim says as brightly as he can. “Just need a moment.” He’s barely finished his sentence, though, when somewhere above them, the persistent, resounding beep of a smoke detector begins to sound. “Oh, you’ve got to be fucking kidding.”

It’s far enough above them and the walls here are thick enough that it’s not as loud as it could be, but still, every beep just makes Tim’s head hurt worse. He instinctively tries to clap his hands over his ears, but his wrists are still bound, and he succeeds only in making his rope burn worse.

“What’s going on?” Carrie says loudly, and she does have her hands over her ears, looking up at the ceiling. “I’ve never heard that go off before!”

Before Tim can answer, something rattles at the door and Carrie gives a little gasp. The rattling goes on awhile, and over the beeping Tim can just barely hear locks being opened. However, when the door swings open, it isn’t Edward Wright standing there, but Jon Sims.

Tim wonders if he hit his head harder than he thought.

“Christ, Tim,” Jon says, and runs down the stairs. Now that the door’s open, the beeping of the smoke detector is louder, and Tim can’t help wincing.

“Jon,” Tim says in relief, still trying to keep his voice light. “Never been happier to see you. All this noise your doing?”

“Yes,” Jon says, dropping to his knees next to Tim. “You look a mess. Are you okay?”

“Oh, I’ll be all right. You look good too,” Tim says pleasantly. “That’s Carrie, by the way. Say hello!”

Jon smiles tightly at the bewildered girl. “Hello.”

“Carrie, Jon,” Tim says, by way of introduction, as if they are meeting at an after-work happy hour and not in the basement where Carrie has been held captive for something close to a year. “Jon’s my colleague I mentioned!”

“How did you….?” Carrie trails off, staring at Jon.

“I broke into his flat and then I stole the keys,” Jon says as he shifts around to the other side of the pole to begin working on untying Tim. “Then I turned on all the burners in the kitchen. Figured it might give me a diversion.”

“Jon!” Tim is a little impressed. “Doing arson now, are we?”

“I didn’t set anything on fire,” Jon shoots back. “If there is a fire, well… Maybe he shouldn’t have left all his burners on. Tim, these ropes are impossible, I’m sorry, I don’t know if I can undo the knot quickly - ”

“That’s not my fault,” Tim says plaintively. “Can’t you do _something_? Do you have a pocketknife?”

“Do I look like I carry a pocketknife?” Jon demands.

“No offense, boss, but yes.”

Jon scoffs. “Sorry. I have a lighter. I could, er….burn through the rope?”

Tim hesitates, but they don’t really have time to find better options. “Don’t burn me.”

Jon is behind Tim, so Tim can’t see him, but he feels Jon touch him gently on the shoulder as if in reassurance. “I won’t,” Jon says, and clicks his lighter.

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep – oh, Jesus!” Tim yelps as Jon sets the rope on fire.

“Easy,” Jon says, and he moves quickly to pull the burning rope away from Tim’s wrists as it grows more brittle. It’s over in seconds, and Tim’s free and Jon is on his feet, stomping out the last vestiges of the flames.

Tim shakes out his wrists, trying to return feeling to his fingers. Jon is already over with Carrie next to the bed, trying to figure out if one of the keys he stole from Wright’s flat will open her handcuff. Tim drags himself unsteadily to his feet and stumbles over to the pair of them. “Can’t we just break the chain?”

“Don’t need to, Tim, calm down,” Jon says as he finds the key to the cuff. He quickly unlocks Carrie and she wiggles her hand free and leaps to her feet.

“Come on,” she says, urgent and wide-eyed, so close to freedom she can taste it. Jon and Tim follow her, but movement makes Tim dizzy and he practically falls down.

Jon catches him by the arm. “You okay?”

“Yep,” Tim says as cheerfully as he can manage. “Hit my head very, very hard. S’all right, though. Let’s go!” Tim stumbles again as they move to the stairs, where Carrie is waiting, bouncing anxiously. Irritably, more roughly than he probably means to, Jon grabs Tim’s arm and pulls it over his shoulders.

“Come on,” Jon says, and even though Jon is nearly half a foot shorter than Tim, even though Jon’s clearly not thrilled about acting as physical support, leaning on Jon does help. So they go, quick as they can, up the stairs, first Carrie, then Tim, then Jon.

They hurry through the narrow entryway and stumble into the back garden. Carrie blinks in the sunlight; her skin is so pale it looks practically fluorescent. Tim is hit with another stab of pity when he realizes how long it’s been since she’s seen the sky.

It doesn’t last long, because in another instant something seizes Tim from behind and hauls him backward. Carrie lets out a little shriek and dives behind a bush before anyone can see what’s going on.

It’s Edward Wright. He twists one of Tim’s arms behind his back and holds a knife to his throat. Jon freezes where he stands and lifts his hands, proving he’s unarmed.

“Emily!” Wright bellows. “Get out here now! Get back in the house, Emily!”

Carrie doesn’t emerge. The blade of the knife pricks against Tim’s throat and he flinches.

“You two come here and try to take my daughter away from me?”

“She’s not your daughter!” Tim hisses. “Emily died, and I’m so sorry for that, but that girl’s name is Carrie and she has parents too!”

“ _Tim_ ,” Jon says anxiously.

Tim’s eyes are on Carrie, who is army-crawling through the bushes that circle the garden.

“Look,” Jon says to Wright. “Let him go, okay? We’re gone. We won’t say anything to anyone and you can forget we were here. You’re not a killer, right? You don’t actually want to do this.”

Tim does not have confidence in Jon’s ability to talk his way out of this, but it’s possible he might be onto something. Wright’s painful grip on Tim’s arm does not lessen, but he does lower the knife a little.

“Tell my daughter to get back inside,” Wright says fiercely.

“Do _not_ tell her that!” Tim says, equally fierce.

“Obviously I’m not going to do that, Tim!” Jon says, and Jon somehow has the audacity to look offended at a time like this. Carrie has disappeared from Tim’s eyesight, and Tim can only hope she’s managed to crawl around the building and make a break for it.

Wright is breathing heavy in Tim’s ear, and he hoists the knife again, twisting Tim’s arm even harder so that he can’t help whimpering in pain. A pained look crosses Jon’s face too, but it’s gone so quickly Tim could believe he imagined it. He meets Jon’s eyes.

“Jon,” Tim says.

“ _What_.”

“Coming to you,” Tim says, and elbows Wright as hard as he can in the side. Wright lets out an “ _oof_!” and relaxes his grip enough for Tim to pull free, duck around the knife, and stumble towards Jon, who somehow manages to catch Tim before he can fall.

“Let’s go!” Tim yells at Jon, and Jon’s hand finds Tim’s. Wright, regaining his breath, lumbers after them and grabs Tim by the back of the shirt, yanking him hard to the ground. Tim feels the wind go out of his lungs and he gasps for air, leaving him no chance to fight back as Wright gets on top of him, wildly wielding his knife and this time looking as if he has full intent on using it. Tim can hear Jon yelling his name, and sees Jon grabbing at Wright’s arm, trying to wrestle him away.

Then another voice yells “ _move, move, move_!” at Jon, and out of nowhere, someone swings a garden rake and whacks Wright across the head. Wright goes still and slowly collapses to the side, unconscious. Above him stands Carrie, arms shaking, holding the rake aloft and looking shocked at what she’s done.

“Is everyone okay?” Carrie asks weakly.

Tim glances over at Jon, who’s kneeling on the ground a few feet away from him, on the other side of Wright’s unconscious form. His glasses are a little crooked and his narrow chest is heaving. Tim reaches out and touches him on the arm. Jon responds by grabbing his hand.

“I’m okay, mostly, I think,” Tim says brightly. “You?”

“I’m okay,” Carrie says, her voice high-pitched and shaky.

“Me too,” Jon says.

“Good. Great.” Tim closes his eyes. “Jon, as you’re the only one with a phone at the moment, would you mind calling the authorities?”

The police come. So does an ambulance. Tim, Carrie, and Jon are all whisked off to the nearest hospital, along with Wright in police custody. The medical staff are happy to release Jon without too much fuss (though they make a fuss over the fact that he’s anemic, which is not news to Jon), but the police want to speak with him and get his statement again and again until he takes a break and calls Basira to find out if she can do anything _now_.

Carrie’s going to be fine. She’s dehydrated and malnourished and Jon is sure she’ll need therapy, but the doctors got in touch with her mother and Mrs. Langford made it to the hospital to reunite with her daughter within hours.

As for Wright, he’ll be sent to prison to await trial. The full extent of his crimes are not yet known, and the police are loath to answer any of Jon’s questions, but Tim and Carrie both seem sure that Carrie isn’t the first person he’s hurt in his life. Jon can only hope that some form of justice can be served.

It’s dark by the time he reunites with Tim. Jon’s waiting outside the hospital when Tim ambles out, looking much better than he had when Jon found him in that horrible basement.

“Hi,” Tim says, and sits down on the bench Jon’s standing next to. Jon sits next to him.

“How are you feeling?” Jon asks.

“Loads better.” Tim points to the side of his temple. “Two stitches, but what’s one more scar for the collection. And I have a concussion, but they gave me pain medication, so I kind of feel good, you know?”

“They’re okay with you going home?” Jon asks.

“Yeah,” Tim says carelessly. “I’m not supposed to, like, move or think for a few days.”

Jon rummages in his pocket for a cigarette. He only has two left, and without thinking he offers one of them to Tim. Tim considers, says “Why the hell not,” and takes it. Jon smiles thinly and lights his cigarette, then holds out the lighter to light Tim’s.

Tim lights the cigarette and nods his thanks. “I’m more surprised the police will let us go home than the doctors. Thought we’d be answering questions all night.”

Jon smiles again. “I believe Basira called in a favor. If they need us, they can reach out to us in London.”

“Really?” Tim sounds surprised. “You do have friends in high places, boss.” Jon opens his mouth to object but Tim waves his protestation aside. “I know, I know, it’s not what I think. Whatever.”

Jon wants to argue and insist that it’s _really_ not, but this is not a battle worth fighting, not when he is mostly just happy both he and Tim are okay. “So.”

Tim takes another drag of his cigarette. “So.”

Jon’s throat feels dry. “I thought I’d call us an Uber to get to the train station. It’ll be late, but…I don’t know about you, but I just want to get home.”

Tim nods and doesn’t look at him. “Me too.”

Jon lets the smoke fill his lungs and breathes it out slowly. “So, er….any big weekend plans?” he asks weakly, just searching for a topic of conversation.

Tim laughs. “Well, I was supposed to have a date tomorrow night.”

“Were you?” Jon looks at him and raises his eyebrows. “Who - ?”

Tim laughs again. “Don’t get jealous, Jon, it’s nobody you know. Just somebody I met on an app.” He rubs his eyes. “Ah, well. I’ll probably cancel anyway.”

“Oh.” Jon ponders this. “I don’t think you should, you know, cancel your whole weekend just because of this.” Working at the Magnus Institute has already asked for more than any of them signed up for. Jon would hate for his colleagues’ weekends to start suffering for it too.

“Jon, the doctors pretty much told me to sit in the dark for the next day or two,” Tim says. “And I’m _strictly_ prohibited from physical activity, which does put a damper on my social life.”

“Why – oh, I see.” Jon’s face feels hot. “In that case, perhaps you should take Monday off as well. To recover.”

Tim wrinkles his nose. “Oh, I don’t know. What would I do with myself all day?”

“Perhaps Martin and Sasha would actually get some work done,” Jon says, gently teasing.

“No, no, I’ll be far more of a nuisance from home. I’ll be texting all three of you all day long.” He finishes his cigarette and flicks it to the pavement, and grinds it out with his heel. “I’ll take you up on that offer, though, so don’t call me Monday wondering where I am.”

“I won’t,” Jon promises.

Tim smiles at him. “Thanks, boss.”

Jon doesn’t know what to say, so he gets out his phone and punches the hospital’s address into the Uber app. They’re still kind of in the middle of nowhere, so Jon’s a little surprised they’ll get service but he won’t question it. It’ll be a pricey ride, but he can expense it, and if Elias complains…let him complain. “Twenty to thirty minutes until the car gets here,” Jon informs Tim.

“Perfect,” Tim says, and closes his eyes.

“I don’t think you should sleep,” Jon says anxiously. He, too, finishes his cigarette and tosses it away.

“I’m not sleeping, I’m resting my eyes.” Still Tim opens them and sits up straight.

Jon looks at him for a moment and clears his throat. “Tim, I – “

“Hey, Jon?” Tim interrupts.

“Yes,” Jon says immediately, shrinking back.

“I know you like to play the guilt card, and that’s fair. A lot of things that have happened are your fault,” Tim says. “But don’t beat yourself up for this one.”

Jon blinks. He tries to figure out how this _isn’t_ his fault. “I’m not sure…”

“Look, following up on these statements is my job, right? That’s what we were doing here. And when I realized what was really going on with Carrie, I….” He trails off, trying to find the right words. “I could not….have lived with myself…if I didn’t do anything.”

Tim is a good person. Tim is _such_ a good person it makes Jon’s heart hurt. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

“Hey, I’m glad you _found_ me.” Tim smiles crookedly. “If you hadn’t, I might not have been. So I guess I owe you one, boss.”

Jon shakes his head. “No. No, definitely not, after all I’ve put you – no.” Jon thinks of his own transgressions, the lack of support and the misguided distrust and inappropriate behavior he’s thrown Tim’s way since Jane Prentiss’s attack. He has a lot to make up for. Maybe this is a step in the right direction. Maybe when Tim comes back to work on Tuesday he’ll actually smile when he sees Jon again.

“Well, thanks for – you know.” Tim pauses. “Not letting me die down there.”

“Of course,” Jon murmurs.

“It all happened so fast,” Tim says. “I don’t think I realized how…how scared I was.”

“Yeah.” Worms are one thing. The supernatural, terrifying as it is to contemplate, feels almost manageable sometimes. Coming face to face with pure human evil, with something as simple as a man who wants you dead, Jon feels he’s been thrown for a loop. Rattled. Like he might take a few days to recalibrate.

Jon’s lost in thought for a few minutes before he feels Tim take his hand. “Hey. We’re okay.”

Jon lets out a gusty sigh. “We are okay.” He looks at Tim. “So what happens now?”

Tim shakes his head, shrugs. “I don’t know.” He smiles. “But we made it.” Tim considers him for a moment, then he cups Jon’s face in his hand and leans in to kiss him. Jon eagerly leans into him, reaches out with both hands to pull at Tim’s shirt and stroke his face as they kiss. It’s urgent, breathless, and feels like this might, somehow, be their last chance, and for all Jon knows, it is. They’re going back to London and Jon has the terrible feeling that they might leave everything that’s happened between them here and never talk about it again.

Tim breaks their kiss and rests his forehead against Jon’s, stroking his cheeks with his thumbs. Tim smiles. “You know what I keep thinking?”

“What?” Jon asks. Their lips are still almost touching; Tim’s brush against Jon’s when he speaks.

Tim laughs. “How Martin is going to absolutely _freak_ when he hears about everything that’s happened the last couple of days.” 

“I think there are certain things he’s better off not knowing,” Jon says stiffly, and Tim laughs and presses another soft kiss to Jon’s lips.

“Don’t worry, boss. I don’t kiss and tell.” A black car pulls up to the curb, and Tim lets go of Jon, to Jon’s disappointment. “That’s for us, I assume?”

Jon digs out his phone and checks it; he has a notification from Uber. “Yeah.” He doesn’t want to leave, but Tim stands up and holds out his hand. Jon takes it.

“Shall we go home, then?”

Jon sighs. “Yes.”

Once in the car, Tim turns to Jon, a look of trepidation on his face. “Jon?”

“Yeah,” Jon says, rubbing his eyes.

“Can I, er….” He hesitates. “The doctors don’t really want me on my own tonight. I thought I’d ask… I mean, I’d probably be fine if you say no, and I’d understand if you don’t – “

“Tim, come stay at mine,” Jon says before Tim can finish stammering through his question. It’s a no-brainer, really. Tim has a concussion. He _shouldn’t_ be alone. Jon wants to ask if Tim wouldn’t be more comfortable in his own home, but Tim probably doesn’t want Jon there, and understandably so. It occurs to Jon that Tim probably has any number of people he could call, and yet he’s asking Jon. He wonders why that is.

Still, Tim looks relieved by Jon’s response, and leans across the seat to hug him, dropping his head to his shoulder. “Thanks, Jon. You’re a lifesaver.”

“Don’t get excited. It’s only so you don’t die in your sleep,” Jon says, and Tim laughs.

“Ah, what are friends for?” Tim says, stretching out his legs as much as he can in the cramped backseat.

Jon eyes him dubiously. “Are we friends?”

Tim laughs again. “I don’t know, Jon. I think we’re _something_.” His dark eyes meet Jon’s and he smiles softly. Jon wants to kiss him but doesn’t, not in the back of an Uber like some half-drunk uni students on their way to a one night stand.

 _Something_. Jon closes his eyes. It sounds about right. He and Tim have spent so much time around each other during their time at the Magnus Institute, Jon isn’t sure they could ever be _nothing_. It’s the turning of that something back into a positive that seemed impossible barely two days ago, but Jon has something resembling hope now.

If nothing else, Jon is glad to spend a little more time with him. The idea of going to sleep alone tonight had not been appealing. They pass most of the Uber ride and then the train in a comfortable, companionable silence. When they reach Jon’s flat, they’re both so exhausted they just crawl into Jon’s bed together without even talking about it. Like it’s nothing.

Jon falls asleep listening to Tim breathe. He knows he shouldn’t get used to it, but can’t help thinking that he could.

**Author's Note:**

> I listened to the entirety of this podcast in a pretty short time and because of that I feel like I probably have some Timeline Inconsistencies, so I'm sorry if something doesn't make sense! Thank you for reading.


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